Murder by traffic accident
by Guinevere81
Summary: The latest killings that Sherlock and John have been investigating have been unusual. Murder by traffic accident really is a very imprecise art... the outcome is so unpredictable. So what happens when Sherlock gets a little to close for comfort to the truth and they find themselves targeted by the killer?
1. Chapter 1

Murder by traffic accidents was a very imprecise science as Sherlock had easily deduced. Only four of the nine intended victims were in fact dead, there were still in critical condition but two had escaped with only minor injuries. It was to interview these two that Sherlock and John were currently heading.

Black cabs, like busses seemed to be one of those rare places where you could get away with not wearing a seatbelt. Of course these days they had been installed and passengers were admonished to use them but most people still seemed happy to ignore this.

Sherlock was not most people, but neither did he enjoy being restricted so in this instance he followed suit with the masses. John usually more aware of health and safety than his flatmate was on this occasion no better, as he would come to regret.

John listened with alert attention as Sherlock explained how he had already deduced that the vehicle they were looking for was a military Landrover of the model _RWMIK _which had been painted black to blend into the cityscape. Their suspects however were not necessarily of a military background…

Sherlock's attention was glued to his phone and John's to Sherlock and it was not until they heard the driver scream in alarm that they realized that anything was amiss.

The driver stepped on the brakes, sending them both tumbling forward even before the large black vehicle slammed into them sending the taxi spinning and flipping with it's passengers tumbling like clothes in a drier until with a screech of metal and breaking glass they slammed into the wall of the building to their left and everything came to a sudden standstill.

The first thing John became aware of was the heavy weight of his flatmate on top of him, a far to limp and unmoving weight. "Sherlock?" He moaned, finding that it hurt far too much to talk. "Sherlock, wake up…" he gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest and was rewarded with the slight stirring of the body on top of him.

"J..hn?" Sherlock slid half off John to land heavily next to him "Ow, ow, ow" Sherlock moaned and became still again.

"Sherlock… don't… move." John ordered trying to shift to allow more air into his lungs. It worked a bit and he drew in shuddering shallow breaths, trying to still the spinning in his head. "Where are… you hurt?" he asked finally as Sherlock came into moderate focus next to him.

"You don't sound too good." Sherlock stated, his voice reassuringly steady. "Your breathing doesn't sound right." There was worry in his tone.

"It… isn't… lung probably… collapsed… nothing… I can… do… bout it… won't… kill me… just… hurts… Answer… t'question… where?" John struggled to speak between gasps for breath that seemed to do very little to help provide him with the oxygen his body was screaming for.

"Well, I'm not the doctor here, but I'm fairly sure that my leg is broken, probably pretty badly. Arm's not working but that's probably just dislocated. Biggest cause for concern is probably the head wound, I think I might pass out on you soon." Sherlock's statement was entirely factual but John could hear the slight strain in his voice which indicated that he was in fact in a considerable amount of pain.

"Don't…" John ordered feebly, "… just… talk… to… me" He tried to move carefully to assess his own injuries but it was all but impossible to focus on anything other than the spinning in his head and the stabbing pain in his chest as he fought to drag air into lungs which felt far too small. "Sherlock… talk." He repeated himself as he felt his friend shift slightly next to him.

"What about?" Sherlock's tone could have possibly been interpreted as bored but John knew better. Even through the fog in his mind he could tell that Sherlock was now sounding distinctly strained.

"Deduce… the… accident" John suggested and moaned involuntarily as a wave of nausea hit him and he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. He forced shallow breath's and tried to focus on the sound of Sherlock's tired voice as he started to speak.

Sherlock shifted, painfully propping himself up with his functioning arm to get a look at his friend. "It wasn't an accident John, we're victims number ten and eleven. That means we're getting close. John, you're bleeding… "

The cab had come to a halt lying on its side and suddenly there was a hammering against its roof and a loud voice from outside. "Anyone alive in there?" yelled a male voice with a slight accent.

"There are two of us, don't know about the driver. We're both injured" Sherlock responded, relieved that help was on the way.

"Fire brigade and ambulance already on their way, we'll have you out in no time." The voice came back trying to reassure but Sherlock did not feel particularly reassured. He hurt more than he was ever going to let on to John and John really did not look very good. Blood was flowing freely down the side of his face and a dark stain was spreading over his right leg and despite John's reassurances that the breathing wasn't life threatening it sounded pretty damn bad to Sherlock.

"Please Hurry, my friend's not looking too good." He shouted to the man outside. At that John raised a hand feebly and opened his mouth to speak but instead of the reassurances that he was fine that Sherlock knew to expect he suddenly closed it again slapping his hand over his mouth for a second before twisting with a pained scream, vomiting and then swiftly passing out, face first in his own vomit.

"Oh, Shit… John, don't do this to me" Sherlock cursed and tried to move to help. Every movement sent agony shooting through his broken leg and with only one functioning arm there really was only so much he could. Do. His world was beginning to spin with the exertion and slumping down he found that the only thing that he could do was to reach his hand out to wrap around John's wrist frantically searching for a pulse. It was there steady and even and it made Sherlock feel a little bit better. It did however not stop the spinning of the car around him and within seconds he had joined John in unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock came to briefly as he was being lifted onto a stretcher by soft hands. His whole body seemed to have been rigidly fixed. He couldn't move his head or his back or his legs and for a brief moment he was sure that he had been paralysed. Then his uninjured arm obeyed his command and his hand wrapped around the hard brace set around his neck and he realised that he had in fact been intentionally immobilised to prevent further injury.

He felt like yelling at them that his back was absolutely fine and to leave him alone and focus on John who he realised had given no such assurances. In fact, while he had been able to at least partly sit up John had not moved at all apart from the desperate twisting to be able to vomit. The memory of his friends scream as he had twisted beside him seemed to echo through his mind and blank out everything else around him. He did not hear the paramedic's questions or feel the needle being inserted in his hand and he was only faintly aware of being lifted into the back of an ambulance before darkness claimed him again.

The next time Sherlock regained consciousness he could feel it wasn't from the kind of pained darkness that passing out would cause but rather a slower more gradual surfacing from sedation. The pain was gone, no not gone, muffled, painkillers… morphine he would recognise that perfect numbness anywhere. He must me messed up if they are giving him opiates given his history.

The room is perfectly silent, no beeping of machines, no noises of anyone breathing other than Sherlock himself. The quiet is a blessing, he really does not feel up to anyone to talk to and the absence of noisy machines must surely mean that he isn't actually in too bad a shape.

He blinks his eyes and finds his expectations confirmed. The room is quite empty but a chair is pulled up next to the bed so most likely he has had a visitor recently. It isn't really a room though, one wall is missing and there is no window. Far off he can hear the soft murmur of people talking but it is too distant for him to hear it. In recovery then, he must have had surgery.

His leg is slightly elevated under the blanket and it does not look leg shaped, something is clearly sticking out of it under the knee so he is fairly certain he's had pins put in it. That will be awkward, he thinks as he continues his assessment.

His dislocated shoulder has been popped back in and bandaged and he has a cast on the wrist below it, strange he hadn't noticed that he had hurt his wrist. The collar is still in place around his neck and he is faintly aware that somewhere beyond the dulling effect of the morphine his head is fighting with his leg for attention.

Could be worse, he figures and then realisation dawns on him. Alone is not good. It may mean that he is doing alright but it sure as hell also mean that John might not be. He blames the morphine for making him forget about it for so long. He tries to sit up but his body does not want to cooperate.

Have to find John… it's the only thought in his mind as he forces his legs to swing over the edge of the bed and feel the pain sear through his broken leg as it hits the floor, radiating through him despite the pain medication. He realises then that he won't be able to go anywhere, there is no way that his newly operated upon leg will carry him out of this room. He can see the long row of pins set into his lower leg extending the length of his calf. It is just as bad as it had felt in the taxi and he feels like screaming at his own incapacity.

He grapples with the apparatus next to the bed searching for and finding the button to call the nurses station. It takes a nurse less than a minute to arrive but it feels like hours.

"Oh dear, you should not be up, here let me help you" she mumbles easing Sherlock back into bed again and he grudgingly lets her. He is so frightfully tired and if he is quite honest with himself his vision is swimming enough that he can't read the name tag of the woman who pushes him back into bed.

"John… is he okay? Where is he?" Sherlock grasps her arm as hard as he can muster which in actual fact is not very hard at all.

"Your friend is still in surgery, hang on your brother is here, I'll get him for you." And she bustles out again as quickly as she had appeared.

"I don't want Mycroft…" Sherlock mumbles after her anger and pain vying for his attention "…I want John" and then he drifts off to sleep again and is not even aware when his Mycroft comes back to once again occupy the visitors chair, looking with concern at his sleeping younger brother.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock surfaced to consiousness again he found his brother sat in the chair next to his bed and he noted that he was in fact out of the recovery room and in a normal hospital room. His broken leg has been elevated under the covers and the pain medication is clearly being weaned off as it is throbbing uncomfortably and is in fact probably what woke him up.

"Good morning" Mycroft said somberly "Or rather good afternoon, it is four o'clock. You have been asleep for some time" he informed.

Sherlock shifted in bed but found that there was not much he could do to get comfortable. "How is John?" he asks surprised to hear how hoarse his voice is.

"Mmm… Still unconscious I believe, or he was last time I asked. It's for the best though, they have him on a ventilator so they're keeping him sedated. " Mycroft's detached tone made Sherlock want to rip his tongue out.

"Details Mycroft, give me the details, is he going to be alright?" There is an embarrassing note of desperation in his voice and Mycroft's face softens just a fraction as he looks at his clearly frightened younger brother.

"They think he'll make it but there's still a risk. His ribcage was damaged enough to cause a flail chest. He had surgery to fix the ribs and they have him on a ventilator for now. His CT scan showed only minor swelling unlike your own, you are aware that you currently have a drain protruding from the left side of your head right?"

"Stop Mycroft." Sherlock reached a hand out toward his brother and then pulled it back again reaching to touch his own bandaged head. "John's the medical expert, I have absolutely no idea what a flail chest is, explain." He ordered as his fingers danced over the tube extending out of his head. If he wasn't so worried about John he would be intrigued by the object.

"It means that he broke enough ribs in multiple places for a segment of his ribcage to become detached from the rest. When he breathes this segment moves inward pressing in on his lungs. This in combination with the ribs having punctured his lung means that he can't get enough oxygen. Because the lungs were not damaged with the same severity they have had to have him intubated in a manner that allows each lung to be managed separately.

"Ok… what else?"

They are concerned about his heart. That is the main problem as they see it I believe, it's bruised and there's been signs of arrhythmia." Sherlock blanched at the description his own heart seemingly twisting in his chest at the description.

"His leg was bleeding?" he added unhelpfully as he recalled the scene from the car.

"Yes, he had an open fracture just below the knee, not as bad as your own but you'll likely have matching scars. If you're going to be picky about it I believe he also has a concussion, three broken fingers and a fair bit of muscle damage in the broken leg but those aren't exactly life threatening. If you want to worry, I would focus on the chest trauma."

Sherlock felt like screaming… he didn't want to worry, he wanted John to be alright. He wanted John sitting in the chair beside him instead of Mycroft. John would have worried about him but he would have been practical and helpful. He would amuse Sherlock and take care of him, he would bloody well have made sure that there was some water around because his throat felt raw and parched.

"I want to see him." Sherlock stated simply and Mycroft looked at him with pitying eyes.

"You're not going to be leaving this bed for some days, certainly not until they take the drain out"

"It wasn't there before… when I woke up… I didn't have anything in my head then" Sherlock absentmindedly touched his head again.

"No, they expected the bleeding to stop naturally. It didn't, they had to decrease the pressure. It was most unpleasant." Mycroft did indeed look a little uncomfortable and a dense silence settled over the room.

"Mycroft, what did they do to my head?" Sherlock said finally, his voice small and worried, nothing like his usual petulant tone.

"Nothing much… they just put the drain in to stop the bleeding causing further damage"

"My mind palace… it's had a break in… It's all a mess, there's things missing and I don't know what used to be there, just it's not there any more… I need to… it doesn't make sense…. It hurts to think… I… I want John." It was hard to say who of the brothers was more disturbed as tears started to roll down Sherlock's cheeks. Shame burned in his cheeks as he held back a sob but he couldn't help himself. Everything hurt, his mind palace was a mess and he wasn't allowed to see John, nothing, absolutely nothing was alright. He squeezed his eyes shut to hide from his brother's pitying gaze and eventually he fell back asleep and Mycroft was greatly relieved when the tears stopped and Sherlock's breathing evened out.


	4. Chapter 4

Twentytwo hours later the doctor arrives to remove the drain and Sherlock looks expectantly up at him as he hears the frankly slightly sickening sound of the implement being pulled out of his head.

"Right, you said once the drain was removed I could see John. " Sherlock argues looking intently at Mycroft who is once again stood at the side of his bed.

"Just give it a few hours. If you're still doing well in a couple of hours we will bring a wheel chair up and you can go down and see your friend." The doctor directs and Sherlock turns to his brother… "You promised" he argues "Once the drain was out I could see him" he grumbles and is frustrated to see Mycroft shake his head.

"I said in a few days, Sherlock, you should be glad things are progressing faster than expected." Mycroft offers stepping a little closer to the hospital bed.

The doctor pats his leg and offers a placating "Soon, soon" before leaving the two brothers alone.

"Why are you even here? Aren't there wars to stop, government officials to control" Sherlock spits, angry that his desires are not being heeded.

"Even I get compassionate leave when my brother is nearly killed." Mycroft offers calmly and Sherlock frowns…

"I was not nearly killed." He grumbles and pushes into a sitting position, trying to ignore the nausea rising at the back of his throat.

"Would I be here if you weren't" Mycroft asks and Sherlock grudgingly has to accept that yes this is probably true. Mycroft would never take this much time away from work if he was not genuinely worried. It annoys him that Mycroft worries, it seems that worrying about him had somehow passed from Mycroft to John and now it is John's prerogative to worry about Sherlock's wellbeing.

"Mycroft, if you care about me at all… just please let me go and see John." Sherlock pleads in a way that is exceedingly painful but the closest to the tone he expects people usually use when trying to evoke compassion.

"I will Sherlock, just give it a couple of hours like the doctor said, so that we know you won't keel over and die on us when we wheel you down there… John would not like that… he would never forgive me if he woke up and found you had died trying to visit him." Mycroft argues and the mention of his friend's dislike of Sherlock's behaviour is enough to placate him. After all John is his moral compass, his opinions must be heeded to some extent.

Hence Sherlock spends four excruciating hours in bed doing absolutely nothing before Mycroft agrees to go in search of a wheelchair. He proceeds to return with a chair and two nurses to help Sherlock manoeuvre into it, something which takes a fair amount of time and results in Sherlock being in rather a lot of pain and both nurses being very flustered by Sherlock's less than kind deductions about the state of their love lives.

One of them remains behind to push him to the lift and Mycroft walks alongside him, silent and overbearing. Sherlock is unusually agitated and it is terribly frustrating that the broken leg is hindering him from pacing or even jiggling his legs to alleviate the tension.

It takes eight long minutes to get from his room to the ICU but it seems like forever to Sherlock. When he is finally wheeled into the cubicle holding John he feels like his breath has been pulled from his chest.

John is lying very still and very pale on a bed attached to a multitude of machines… his chest is rising and falling evenly with the aid of a ventilator and his heart beat is being measured by a monitor at his side but he looks for all intents and purposes like one of the corpses from the morgue at Bart's.

Sherlock stares in horror as Mycroft moves around to John's other side placing a hand on the doctor's leg.

"He said it wouldn't kill him, was he wrong? Mycroft? He can be so stupid sometimes." Sherlock asks a horrible lump in his throat.

"I honestly don't know Sherlock" Mycroft states in a detached voice. "The fact that he survived the ride here is good, but there's still a risk" Just as Mycroft utters those words the even rhythm of John's heart monitor stops for a second and an alarm goes off and keeps wailing even as the heart beat returns to the screen.

Staff flood into the cubicle, checking John's vital statistics but placated that he is doing fine they leave again, only a solitary nurse remaining crouched in front of Sherlock who stares in terror at the heart monitor's even pattern.

"It's ok… his heart is bruised, it is to be expected, you don't need to panic" she offers as she places a hand on Sherlock's and squeezes briefly." Your friend will be ok." She urges as she stands up and leaves the cubicle.

Mycroft watches his younger brother as he grabs the doctor's hand looking miserably at the splinted fingers. Sherlock may claim that he has no heart but right now it is exposed for the world to see and Mycroft is painfully aware of how frightened his brother must be. He had felt something very similar only a day and a half ago when Sherlock was rushed into surgery to relieve pressure on his bleeding brain.

They sit in silence watching and listening to the beeping of the heart monitor and the whoshing of the respirator until Sherlock starts to nod off, his head coming to rest on the bed next to John. At this point Mycroft goes in search of the nurse who brought them down, hoping that they will be able to convince Sherlock that he needs to go back to bed.


End file.
